


Nothing Personal

by winter_rois



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Dorian Pavus, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Character Death, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Demands of the Qun, Dragons, Established The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Hissrad, Loyal to the Qun The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), M/M, Necromancy, POV Dorian Pavus, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Demands of the Qun, Qunari, The Qun (Dragon Age), Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_rois/pseuds/winter_rois
Summary: Dorian and the Bull have unfinished business. A fix-it fic for the Bad Ending, with dragons and death magic.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Nothing Personal

In the end, Dorian doesn't remember why he was surprised at all: the clues were there. He had simply chosen to ignore them. He had ignored a great deal, back then.

They stand in the ruined Daarvaarad, the Inquisitor, the Iron Bull, the Divine, and Dorian. Starlight and smoke filter through broken spaces in the high ceiling, revealing and concealing splatterings of gore. The smell of blood and shit clings to everything, their robes, their skin. Dorian is certain he'll never wash the scent from his hair. Fitting, he supposes, that a Tevinter Magister should be redolent of blood, of death. He dismisses the thought as he gazes towards their adversaries, a legion of Ben-Hassrath, Qunari spies who once counted Bull among their number. Dorian wants to sneer, for it's the one thing he can count on doing particularly well, but he defers to the Inquisitor. It's the polite thing, after all.

Maxwell Trevelyan, heir to a minor fortune and possessor of the anchor that nearly broke the world in two, frowns deeply at the encroaching Qunari horde. Silence falls as softly as ash between the two groups, as though they are part of some strange, bloody dream. The Inquisitor's lips part as if to say something no doubt heroic when the Viddasala speaks. 

"Hissrad, now!" 

Dorian flicks a quizzical look at Bull, who nods at her tersely. He's taut as a bow string, his jaw clenched. He has that look--the one where he goes blank but Dorian knows his mind is working quickly. Within seconds, he seems come to some decision. 

"With pleasure, ma'am," answers Bull, his voice a brontide that Dorian feels in his bones. He turns to the Inquisitor whose face has turned stony with anger. Cassandra makes a sound of surprise, her brown eyes wide, her grip tightening on her sword. The Viddasala smiles, her eyeteeth sharp as daggers.

"Bull," spits the Inquisitor, "what is this?"

"Nothing personal, _bas._ "

The words strike Dorian like the full force of Bull's axe. "Amatus," he whispers, the word slipping from his mouth unbidden.

A single crimson eye fixes him to floor. "No," says Bull. "Never that."

The Inquisitor lets fly a scream and the battle pitches. Dorian, the quake of the world beneath his feet, leaps into battle, spinning barriers, throwing flames. Battle-dust pricks his eyes and the heat of fire makes them water. Yes, only fire and dust. Nothing more. This, at least, he knows.

#

Later, the Bull lies dead, his eye open, his mouth slack. At his side, Dorian's fingers twitch, the desire to touch Bull not quite dead, not yet. A heavy hand rests on his shoulder. 

"Dorian…" says the Inquisitor. 

"Don't," says Dorian, the word barely a whisper. He shrugs away from the Inquisitor. "The eluvian waits. Best hurry before it closes."

The Inquisitor's brow furrows, his mouth pulling into a thin line. "You aren't coming? How could you--"

"It isn't personal," snaps Dorian. "Go."

The Inquisitor exchanges a look with Cassandra; in a breath, they are through the eluvian, leaving Dorian alone with the Bull, or what is left of the Bull. Unbelievable he could fall so easily. Dorian takes in his broken horn, his severed hand, his unseeing eye, and looses a breath. Behind his ribs, pain blooms like a nightflower, not from a blow, no Bull never touched him, not once in this fight; instead, he felled Dorian with three words alone. _No. Never that._ Dorian scrubs a grimy hand through his hair, blinks away the stinging from his eyes. Foolish to hope, Pavus, that this time things would turn out differently. They never did.

A sound snags his ears. Rough breathing like silt sliding down a mountain pass. The scent of fire long extinguished. The taste of ash hanging in the air like a mockery of snow. How could he have forgotten? It had nearly taken his head off with a single fiery breath. Dorian turns toward the sound's source. The dragon lies wounded and forgotten among dead Qunari, but very much alive. A single golden eye meets Dorian's gaze. The mage draws breath, closes his eyes, opens them; he approaches the dragon, kneels. 

The monster murmurs something in its own dragon's tongue. Bull often insisted dragons spoke, that their very blood carried the power of language, of memory across the ages. Dorian lays a hand on the creature's wounded head and remembers gentle fingers across his own brow. He sighs and surrenders to memory because he is a fool, because memory is a dubious constant, but a constant all the same. The memory of a voice rumbling like distance thunder slides over him like silk. Dragons, Bull once explained, were thought to be ancestors of kossith. Kin to Qunari, in a way. They'd shared this conversation early in their relationship, if one could call it that at the time. Back then, it was little beyond drinking and fucking and drinking some more. If Dorian stayed a night or two, it was merely due to the bone-weariness of being well-fucked, of being unable to walk properly without eliciting too many stares and wagging tongues. If he spent the entire night in Bull's company, his strong arm draped over Dorian's hip, his warm breath stirring Dorian's hair, well, it was what it was. A small comfort in an uncertain world. That was all. For that reason, Dorian had nearly forgotten this, one of their few unguarded conversations, unspooling after a night of languid sex--Bull had been particularly attentive that night, and whispered filthy nothings in Dorian's ear while stroking Dorian boneless. Dorian had babbled orders as he always did--topping from the bottom Bull had described it to all and sundry--and surrendered to Bull's attentions. This was night after the confrontation with the Venatori on the Storm Coast, if Dorian remembers correctly. Bull had been in need of a distraction.

Dorian blinks away tears, ash, old ghosts, and arrives at the present.

It's too late to change the past, and Dorian doesn't want the responsibility. But perhaps...

Before he has a chance to think otherwise, to banish foolish thoughts, to run and never look back, Dorian comes to a decision. He has always, of course, been a fool.

He recalls the words, whispers them to the air, enticing the correct spirits out of the Fade. This part was always important. The wrong spirit…well, that could lead to an abomination, or worse, another Blight. Dorian concentrates. Sweat beads his brow, dampens his mustache. The air murmurs as spirits circle like crows. He smells, of all things, rain and earth and leather. The fine hairs along his arms prickle. Faint laughter rumbling like thunder curves through the air. There. This one would do. More words. He drags his dagger across his palm; blood mingles with blood upon the dragon's bony brow. Tears make their slow way down his face, collect upon the dragon's flesh. Not part of the spell, but they too would do. 

Moments, minutes, hours later, it's done.

The dragon's breath snags and fades. Dorian holds his breath until, finally, the creature's breathing strengthens. When its eyes open once more, it gazes at him with recognition and something, Dorian imagines, like affection. The creature tilts its head and huffs, scenting him. It exhales a breath tinged with blood and smoke. A scaly lip curls and it speaks a single word. Perhaps others might mistake this for a grunt, but Dorian knows this word as well as his own heart. 

Dorian smiles, too sharply, too suddenly. No matter. "Amatus."

The dragon rises on its haunches and lies couchant, its eyes still resting Dorian's face as if to memorize him. 

"Why?" asks the dragon, when it finds its voice once more. 

A thousand answers flit through Dorian's mind: flippant, angry, nonchalant. He discards them all in favor of one he uses rarely: sincerity. "Because," answers Dorian, "I am not quite finished with you, and I did not wish you to die in battle before you were finished with me."

The dragon's eyes widen with something like surprise. The body's new occupant has not yet learned to school its expression into bland interest. This honesty is new for both of them. 

"What happens now?" asks the dragon.

"Honestly? I haven't the faintest."

The dragon nods. He unfurls his wings and flexes them experimentally. Dust lifts into the air as he begins to flap them. "Care to find out?" The question is almost coy and elicits from Dorian a surge of affection. 

"Always." He climbs onto the dragon's back, holding on to its thick neck. Together, they take to the rift-ruined sky. They leave behind their lives and take the only thing that ever mattered: their hearts.


End file.
